Murder the Heroes

Chapter Three; Section Two

The monastery burned. Somewhere ahead a warning bell rung, summoning the surviving monks to defend their homes. Not that there were many left. Freddie had made sure of that. That was Coil had decided to call the Dragontorn after he’d learned that Liberty had failed to name it, even after thousands of years. That was wrong, as far as Coil was concerned. Fine, it might not actually be alive, it might be in constant pain, it might be utterly insane, but that didn’t mean it didn’t have an identity – even if it was a tortured one.

She wasn’t one for names. He was pretty sure she hadn’t meant for him to call her either Death or Liberty. That it had just been a statement about what she was. It had been what he’d asked, after all. But he was done calling her ‘she’. So, after twelve hours on Freddie’s back – which had been colder than Krull magic – he’d decided she was Liberty and he Freddie. Both had answered to the names willingly enough. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicions they both kind of liked them. Personally he would have preferred calling her ‘Death’, but he’d decided not to push his luck.

“This way,” said Liberty. They headed down a corridor of simple stone. A monk came charging towards them. Coil raised his crossbow. The man’s cry changed into a gurgle as he slumped towards the floor. “Good shot.” Coil grunted and reloaded – not an easy thing to do when you were missing fingers. They passed by an opening and were treated to a grand vista of the surrounding mountains. Though the monastery was simple, the view was breath taking. The sun sparkled off snowy mountain tops, ragged stone points competed to touch the sky and far below a city gleamed in the crook of a shimmering river.

People not intent on murder and theft would have probably stopped to admire the stunning view. For those who were, however, the vista inspired concern. After all, if you could see so far from the monastery, then that must mean that the monastery – and the billowing plume of black smoke – could be seen from just as far. No doubt people were already on their way.

“We have to hurry.” He said unnecessarily. She didn’t deign to respond. They rounded a corner and there stood the rest of the monks arrayed before them. This was the main hall, the religious heart of the place, where the walls were hung with priceless manuscripts. In the middle of the room hung the brass bell, which still reverberated and strained from where it had been struck time and again with the massive tree trunk that hung beside it. Upon seeing them the monks did not wait but with cries of loss, fear and rage launched themselves forward.

Coil reached out towards the bell and changed the vibration. He found the right reverberation almost immediately and amplified its pitch until – like an opera singer finding the right note for a glass of wine – the thing exploded. Metal shrapnel flew everywhere, cutting through young flesh and ancient manuscripts with equal ease. The monk’s cries changed as they died. Blood and gore covered everything. Coil shot at one of the few still standing. This time he missed. Another one, with a piece of shrapnel the size of a dinner plate sticking out of his back, attacked Liberty. She caught his staff. Rot ran along its length and up the monk’s arm. Moments later there was nothing but a withered husk.

Coil saw a flicker by one of the open windows and threw up his wards. A moment later death and fire washed through the room. Liberty simply stood there, awash in the flames. When they receded she remained unscathed. The monks weren’t so lucky. Slowly Coil picked himself up from the floor. “Damn you Freddie,” he muttered. That had been close. That beast was, unexpectedly happy-go-lucky.

“This way.” Liberty strode forward. Coil was about to follow, but then his eyes fell on the half-burned face of a child. He stopped; looked around at the other corpses. By the Gods, most of them had been children! They’d given up their lives to defend this room and what lay beyond it, no doubt fully aware that they didn’t stand a chance. This was some sick shit.